Another breath of silence before he responded. “I was thinking that perhaps Mr. Knight knew exactly what he was doing when he hired you.”
She folded her iPad over the keyboard. “Your confidence is overwhelming.”
“It’s meant to be a compliment, Quenby. If anyone could find Brigitte, I believe it would be you.”
She thought he was mocking her, but as she looked at him again, studying his face like he’d done to her, she saw strength in his brown eyes, a genuine smile on his lips.
And it seemed that this time he was telling the truth.
Chapter 23
Mulberry Lane, February 1941
“Hurry up,” Eddie urged, yanking open the drawers in their bedroom bureau, dumping Olivia’s blouses and knickers onto the bed. It wouldn’t be long before the two detectives up at the big house started knocking on the doors of cottages near the bomb site.
She folded several items of clothing into a suitcase as if the folding were critical. “I’m moving as fast as I can.”
He tossed a pile of clothes into her case and clasped it shut. “You must leave now!”
A wet trail streaked across the linoleum and carpet upstairs, starting from where he’d pulled her from her bath minutes ago, but still she didn’t seem to understand the urgency of their situation. This was no holiday. Nor was there time to coordinate outfits and such. The basics were all she needed.
She sniffled again, but there was no time for tears either. He’d left the big house twenty minutes ago, soon after two detectives from London arrived. The men were meeting with Lord Ricker, asking about a German parachute the Tonbridge police found after the fire yesterday, hidden in the shed by the greenhouse.
He hoped the officials over in Germany flayed whichever pilot dropped that bomb on Breydon Court. They were supposed to be diverting attention from this property by bombing down south, not marking the spot where their man had landed.
The parachutist was livid as well. He’d run through the snow last night to find a hiding place for himself, no time to stow his parachute.
Now Roger—the name on the man’s fake papers—was in Lady Ricker’s car, waiting under a canopy of trees with the chauffeur. They needed Olivia before they could leave.
Eddie peeled back the blackout curtain to look outside, but he couldn’t see anything unusual in the fading light. Then the telephone rang, and he swore into the receiver.
Olivia whirled toward him. “What is it?”
He hung up the phone. “One of the detectives is driving this way.”
“There’s no reason for him to stop here—”
“He’s planning to interview everyone on Mulberry Lane.”
Olivia blanched. “Where’s the girl?”
He raced across the landing and found her under the cot. “Get up!”
She actually listened this time, standing as he stuffed the small pile of clothing from her closet into a paper bag. Then he shoved it into her hands. She dropped the bag and bent over to fold the feet of the cot.
“Nein,” he said. “You won’t need that.”
He tried to pull her away, but she clung to the cot.
“Aus.” He pointed toward the door. “Get out.”
But the girl wouldn’t let go of her bed, and he had no time to fight.
“Fine,” he shouted, quickly collapsing the cot and rolling it up. “Take it with you.”
The doorbell rang below, and for the first time since he’d moved to Breydon Court, Eddie thought their jig was up. Perhaps he shouldn’t wait for the investigator. He could go to Newhaven with Olivia and the parachutist right now. Start over again in a new town.
He had already hidden the wireless transmitter, but his camera was still in the cellar, with film inside. He’d been careless, leaving the film, but he hadn’t thought someone would be searching his house.
If he ran, the detective would surely suspect him. And the images on his camera would seal his fate. Ultimately they’d discover that he and Lady Ricker were collaborating.
The doorbell rang again, and Olivia burst onto the landing. One suitcase was tucked under her arm, clothing trailing out both sides. The handle of another case was clasped in her hand.
He would stay here and face the investigator, feigning ignorance. Helpfulness, even, if he must. He would tell them that his former wife had been a photographer.
Olivia rushed down the stairs, and he grabbed the end of the girl’s cot and pulled her down the steps as well. Near the back door, his wife leaned to kiss him, but he pushed her outside with the girl. There was no time for sentiment when they were all in danger of being shot or hanged.
“Run!” he commanded them.
The doorbell rang for the third time, and he tugged at his collar. What a bally mess. Sweat poured off his forehead, down his neck, and he reached for a dish towel to wipe it off before he opened the door.
A wool topcoat did little to hide the rolls of flesh cushioning the detective’s frame. “I’m Inspector Hill.” The man tipped his black trilby hat. “Are you Eddie Terrell?”
“I am.”
The man looked over Eddie’s shoulder. “Does it always take you this long to answer your door?”
“I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
The detective studied his face.
“You interrupted my bath.”
The man gave a curt nod. “I’m from Scotland Yard. And I have a few questions to ask.”
He opened the door wider. “Come in.”
“Anyone else here?” the inspector asked as he stepped over the threshold.
“No,” Eddie said, tugging on his stiff collar again. “I live alone.”
CHAPTER 24
_____
The Royal Institution of Great Britain was caged in light—the atrium, lift, even some of the walls were made of glass. In a laboratory, behind one of these glass walls, Quenby waited as Lucas’s friend—a pretty technician named Meribeth—connected Quenby’s iPad to a camera on the microscope.
After a tutorial, Quenby sat on a stool beside the steel table and removed one of the microphotographs from the envelope with tweezers, sandwiching it between two slides. Meribeth helped her adjust the lighting, eyepiece, and zoom dial until the image grew clear. The picture was of a building with an open front. Like an airplane hangar. Instead of being colored black and white, it was an ivory and brown.
Quenby copied the image onto her iPad before slipping the next photograph onto the microscope stage.
Last night, she’d learned that Lucas worked solely for one client—Mr. Knight and his company, Arrow Wind. This morning, Lucas was at his office writing other contracts, but his text had opened the door for her to use one of the best dissecting microscopes—if not the best—in the United Kingdom.
The next photographs captured a lineup of old airplanes, the British roundels on the fuselages distinct. There were no people in these pictures and only the outline of buildings in the background. She saved those photographs to examine later before viewing the last one. A hand-drawn map of an airport. There were no markings of the map’s location but plenty of notes about hangars, headquarters, barracks, and runways.
Who had been taking microphotographs of what appeared to be an RAF airfield? And why were they stored in the cottage where Brigitte and the Terrells once lived? The photographer, she suspected, wasn’t an amateur.
After thanking Meribeth, Quenby checked her watch. A trip to Newhaven seemed to be the next logical step. Using her new retainer, she’d leave first thing tomorrow on the train and spend the night there.
Her phone chimed when she emerged from the Tube station at Hampstead, informing her of a new text. She figured it was Lucas, but instead it was from Chandler, asking to meet her at Le Pain Quotidien.
She eyed the words curiously. Was her editor going to give her the Ricker story back? If so, what would she tell Lucas and Mr. Knight? She couldn’t renege now, not after she’d committed to searching for Brigitte.
Several customers
were in the front of the café, drinking coffee as they worked on their laptops. Chandler waited in the back of the room, nursing a pool of bright green—a matcha latte—in an oversize mug.
Quenby ordered the green tea drink as well before taking a seat across from her editor and friend. “Did you decide to take a holiday too?”
“No, I’ve been in the office all morning.” Chandler glanced toward the front door. “And something’s not right.”
Quenby followed her gaze toward the door. “Are you expecting someone else?”
Chandler turned toward Quenby. “Just a bit paranoid. Evan was obsessing this morning.”
“He’s always obsessing about something.”
“But this something has to do with your story.”
“I have no story.” The server brought her creamy tea latte, made with almond milk, and she took a long sip.
“At first he asked me to send you away on holiday.” Chandler pressed her fingers into a tepee shape, a distinct arc over her drink. “Now he wants to know where you went. I told him I didn’t know—”
“I don’t have to report where I go on vacation.”
“Traditional rules don’t apply to Evan.”
“It’s just basic courtesy.”
But she supposed courtesy didn’t apply to Evan Graham either. In the past three years, she’d never known him to hesitate before exposing something that needed to be exposed. Even the time Chandler found out through a secret source that one of Evan’s associates, a Member of Parliament, was suspected of hiring someone to assault an opponent before the election. The MP was acquitted, but the story ruined his friend’s political career and his friendship with Evan.
Chandler straightened her mug. “He also wants to know what you uncovered about Lady Ricker.”
“Nothing that isn’t already public in the archives. Her descendants have been stonewalling me.”
“Evan hasn’t been to the archives.”
So Quenby rehashed everything she’d learned about Janice Ricker.
“This woman seems like an American version of Lady Mosley,” Chandler said, referring to the former Diana Mitford, a wealthy British woman who supported Hitler and his regime.
“Except Lady Ricker wasn’t imprisoned during the war, and she was quite secretive about her loyalties.”
“There must be more to this story.” Someone walked by their table, toward the loo. Chandler didn’t speak again until the door behind them was closed. “I’ve worked for Evan for six years, and I’ve never seen him act like this. Once we’ve wrapped or canceled a story, he’s anxious to move on to the next one, but he can’t seem to let your idea go.”
“I can’t let go of it either,” Quenby admitted.
“Even though Evan was the one who killed the story, he might still give you a call. It wouldn’t surprise me if he asked you to resume your research.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
Chandler took her last sip of the latte. “Are you planning to work with Lucas Hough to find the missing girl?”
“I am.”
“Perhaps you could write about her when you return.”
She shook her head. “Lucas made me sign a confidentiality agreement.”
Chandler twisted her mug. “So it must be a fabulous story.”
“One that will remain secret from the public.”
Chandler leaned closer. “Is the man as smashing in person as he looks online?”
“I think I’ll plead the Fifth.”
“The what?”
Quenby waved her hand. “Never mind.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?”
“I have no idea.” Though she’d wondered if he and Meribeth were more than friends. The woman was stunning, and she was obviously a pro in her field.
“Don’t be your prickly self around him.”
She squeezed the handle of her cup. “I’m not prickly.”
“Not with me,” Chandler said. “But you can be quite prickly around any man who dares to like you.”
“He doesn’t like me, not in that way.”
“But he could, if you’d let him.” Chandler stood and kissed her cheek. “Either way, try and have some fun on this holiday.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“And don’t scare Lucas Hough away.”
Chandler left the café, but Quenby didn’t move. Lucas was the prickly one, not her. Or at least he had been until he decided to call a truce.
Blast Chandler for making her lose her focus. She and Lucas had moved into an amiable relationship for the sake of their work. Nothing more or less.
Rain fell outside the window. Even though summer was only weeks away, it was still chilly. The warmth of southern France sounded nice at the moment, but she was more interested in pursuing Brigitte’s story than seeing sunshine.
Newhaven was on the coast. It wouldn’t be warm, but she could work for a few days near the water. And perhaps she’d find out what happened to Brigitte after she left Mulberry Lane.
Chapter 25
Newhaven, February 1941
Brigitte didn’t like the man sitting in the motorcar beside her. He smelled like manure and charred meat, and he kept talking to her in German, asking questions about her home, her parents. Inquiring about any family she had looking for her in England.
She didn’t answer any of his questions. Instead she kept wiping the fog from her window to watch the darkness lap against their vehicle. If only one of the waves would steal her away.
Hours had passed since Frau Terrell dragged her across the pasture from their house, the muddy snow sucking at both their shoes. Halfway to the car, Frau Terrell tried to wrestle the cot roll from Brigitte’s hands, saying it slowed them down, but Brigitte sat on the bundle of canvas and wood, pressing it down in the snow. And she refused to move without it.
Frau Terrell had looked between Brigitte and the bag in her hand as if she were trying to decide which to carry. In hindsight, Brigitte wished that she’d stayed with her cot in the pasture, but when Frau Terrell turned away, Brigitte had followed, shambling behind her toward the vehicle.
The foul-smelling man leaned toward her. “Wie bist du nach England?”
She wrapped her arms over her chest, inching as close as possible to the door, the metal rattling from ruts on the country road. It was her secret, how she arrived in England. A secret she would never tell, especially to this man.
When she refused to answer again, the man scooted forward on the seat, speaking to Frau Terrell in English. “Are you certain she speaks German?”
The woman didn’t glance back. “I’m not certain of anything.”
He looked at Brigitte again, and though she could barely see his face in the moonlight, she shivered. “I’ll convince her to talk.”
This time Frau Terrell turned around. “You won’t convince her to do any such thing.”
“I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m in charge of the girl.”
“Of course.” The man leaned back, shifting his suitcase on the seat between them. He’d refused to allow the driver to put it into the boot of the motorcar, and anytime Brigitte touched it, by accident, he’d slap her arm.
The bundle with her cot was secure under her feet, Dietmar’s knight resting in her pocket. They were her only possessions now besides her clothing. She wouldn’t go anywhere without both of them.
Frau Terrell spoke to the driver. “Are we almost there?”
“I’m trying to find the bridge across the river.”
“Eddie said the house was only an hour away.”
The driver snorted. “Eddie lied.”
It seemed they’d been driving forever now, following the cat’s eyes reflecting on the road. The same darkness. The same stench inside the car. If they passed villages, Brigitte couldn’t see them. Blackout curtains kept any light from trickling out, even to help motorcars find their way.
The driver stopped on the side of the road and ex
amined his map in the light of his torch, shaded by his hand. Her eyes heavy, Brigitte curled up in a ball and leaned against the door. If only she could crawl under her cot to sleep.
How were she and Dietmar going to find each other now, so far away from where they’d parted? But she couldn’t give up hope. One day she’d return to Mulberry Lane and search for him.
When she woke, the sound of road under their tires had smoothed, and she realized they were crossing a bridge. In the morning light, she could see the river below, a blue thread woven through chalky white cliffs.
And then there was a small village ahead. A cluster of houses and shops. The man beside her slouched down in his seat as they passed through town, but her nose stayed pressed against the window. No one was on the street, but the houses filled her with a sense of gratefulness, the knowledge that she wasn’t alone.
On the other side of town, the driver turned onto another road, and they crept back along a bumpy road that cut through a woodland. The trees grew thick on both sides of the car, spiky arms batting against the windows.
Brigitte closed her eyes, trying not to think about her and Dietmar’s flight through the trees. But she couldn’t stop the memories. Dietmar holding her hand, urging her forward, then stopping her when they neared a house so he could find them food. Dietmar making them beds of pine straw in the forest. Dietmar covering her with his coat while she pretended to sleep on the rugged floor.
She felt for the knight in her pocket.
How she missed her best friend.
The driver stopped. “There it is.”
When she opened her eyes, Brigitte saw a forlorn shack before them, a piece of wood dangling over the front door. The paint had long ago peeled off the sides and a garden of weeds grew tall in the gutter. Across the only front window spread a spiderweb.
The man beside her opened the door. “Willkommen zu Hause.”
Welcome home.
Frau Terrell began to cry.
Catching the Wind Page 13
